Keeping current in wellness, in and out of the water
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You can scroll the shelf using ← and → keys
Sails ripped to shreds in the blasted all night rain storm,
That tiny leaking wooden boat listed to port sadly sinking,
Drunken sailors wearing tattered, filthy rags, bodies barely warm
Had no sustenance their rotten spoiled provisions all stinking
They passed a small island full of greedy giant vultures
The sky filled with black wings soaring, silently hunting
The ship of justice, once proud and elegant, had run aground
Today is day 4 of National Poetry Writing Month. Join the fun to read, write, recite here. 30 poems in 30 days!! Enjoy!
Dancing while the sun disappeared, under a cloudy sky
We never saw it coming, and were shocked as it went by
Some thought it was a dragon, some saw a giant fox
At first we thought it was a trick of the light, a mirage
The silence covered us like a heavy hanging mystery
We stood on the shore expecting a character from history
To descend on our party to pardon our sins and omissions
To make it all better, to save us, to improve our conditions
We waited in vain for prophecy or guidance to appear
As darkness fell on the crowd, desperation became fear
Down the road in pitch black night the footsteps returned
To home, the safety of the hearth, where fire still burned
This is a response to this week’s photo prompt by Sue Vincent on the Echo. Please join us each Thursday for a new prompt and the opportunity to read or submit your own piece inspired by her intriguing photography.
The door was blocked by a large figure standing next to the fire
His face obscured by smoke, his identity concealed from us,
He moved with deliberate intent so swift and sure he seemed a ghost,
A phantom memory of the times when this place served as the center
Of a large and looming ogre with scary tendrils reaching into every nook
We were not sure if he entered the flames on purpose or was pulled
By fate or backdraft into the inferno that had started so suddenly
The night exploded as the bright red fire consumed the mask of power
Some rejoiced as the melting symbol of the past became a molten puddle
Most of us wondered how long it would be before the area would be safe
We all believed the melting mask was telling us to take great precaution
This poem is a response to this week’s photo prompt from Sue Vincent’s Echo. Each Thursday she posts a photo. She is a very good sport to post for us this week since her own computer exploded and has made access to her photo collection tedious. Thank you Sue. We appreciate your generosity. Please join other writers here to read, write, comment on last week’s prompt.
I feel proud of my accomplishment to have finished #NaPoWriMo again this year by writing 30 poems in 30 days. I thought I would be very productive as a poet and in all other parts of life, but I was wrong all wrong. I did wrote the poems, but slacked on all kinds of other goals for no particular reason. I had planned to hand write poems to all my pen pals and send them on very artful paper, and I did that zero times. In fact I have not even written to the pen pals, which has caused quite a bit of guilt, since many have continued to write letters to me. My neighbor suggested I send them all a card saying “Roses are red. Violets are blue. I am so sorry I haven’t written to you.” I might do it. I have a stack of mail to answer. I look forward to getting into the swing of that again and seeking the forgiveness of the pen pals.
After my prose break I have considered new features I want to include. I plan to do a blog post each week about tea. I drink iced tea daily in great quantity. I had a limited knowledge and palate for tea, partly caused my my own ignorance of proper brewing. I had created bitter and undrinkable black and green teas by brewing them too long at a high temperature. I began to try new kinds of tea and learned more about making it taste good. I have come a long way in my own personal appreciation for the world of tea.
Almost all the tea I brew now is done in a jar buy the sun. In Arizona we have plenty of solar energy to brew tea on the sidewalk almost every day. This method never results in overly bitter or over brewed taste. It is the natural way to make sure I brew it properly. I do strain and refrigerate it as soon as I bring it in (usually after about 10 hours). We go through it quickly, so there is no need to cover the pitcher in the fridge. I collect big pitchers so we can break a few every year. Tea keeps us refreshed and healthy. It is a bargain in comparison to any bottled commercial beverage.
I plan to promote tea drinking for tea lovers, but I specifically want to interest those who normally drink beverages in cans and bottles which they purchase. These drinks are very expensive compared to the most exotic and pricey teas, and offer no benefits for health. Even bottled water has destructive effects on the environment. When one knows about the varieties and flavor combinations available in tea, a world of gourmet delights opens to reveal a plethora of new experiences. Tea pairs well with both foods and alcohol, offering new ways to serve old favorites. I hope to bring out some flavorful ideas the gentle readers will want to try.
Since Tuesday is the day of the week that alliterates with tea, I believe tomorrow will be the first installment of Tuesday Tea Party. I am brewing some mango honeybush right now which will probably be featured. I hope you will join me for a cup. Cheers!
We watched them huddle around the fire to confer
About the plot they hatched to silence her
Laws and rule books were tossed in to burn
The flames grew large and the wind swirled
The bonfire of their vanities was burning in space
They were enveloped in a hellish backfire
There was no remedy for the sudden change
With pants all aflame they tried to conspire
We could neither believe them nor save them
They were consumed by their own vanities.
To participate by reading or writing a post about this picture go to Sue Vincent’s blog. She generously provides a new photo for inspiration each Thursday. Some very creative writers participate, and it is fun to see how the same picture inspires completely different responses in each writer.
If we were having coffee this week I would invite you to the nut bar to find the right mix to pair with your tea or coffee. The nut bar is a nod to both #OctoberUnprocessed, which I find easy to do, and to the tidy guru, whose advise I am finding very difficult to follow. I purchased more fall festive flavors of white tea and chai partly because my tea company offered a free tiny bottle of honey with an order over a certain amount. I was a sucker for the honey, and have yet to impose any kind of tidy rules on my tea cupboard. It makes me very happy, and when a swing the lazy susan cabinet that houses it closed it adds no visual clutter to my kitchen.
In my journey to minimalism and clean eating I have created an alternative to processed crackers this week that is far superior to the store bought version. I made pesto shortbread to die for. I still have some in the fridge ready to slice and bake. It has the flavor of homemade pesto I already had on hand and utilizes some of the pine nuts I also have in stock. My tidy muse reminded me that all of the nuts in my fridge are from last year. The few pecans I still have in the shell have been waiting for way to long to be cracked open and eaten. She (tidy muse) is absolutely right about consuming the old food to make room for the new crop which is soon to arrive on the market. In the spirit of tidy AND unprocessed I have started eating a daily deconstructed dessert. It started with apples and honey for Jewish new year. It is so pleasant and satisfying that I have followed with sliced apples or pears with cheeses and with nuts. I have been enjoying this sweet indulgence by purchasing different honey and apple varieties to combine. The honey from the tea company is cinnamon flavored, which is delightful with both the nuts and the apples. I have pecans, pine nuts, walnuts, hazel nuts, and pistachios all on special for my tasting pleasure. During your weekend beverage visit please help yourself to these seasonal delights. The tidy muse will be so pleased when all the nuts are gone.
I am inspired by the many ambitious writers who frequent this coffee share. Some of you are very prolific while you continue full lives in other realms. I have been thinking about writing more poetry, since I do really love it. Like tidying, I have to struggle against some lazy lady lurking in the shadows who does not want to make the effort to write poetry. I was set up to attend a poetry reading on Thursday, meant to get my poetry mojo working. I slept through it, as I did the vice presidential debate the previous night. I am extremely early to bed and early to rise, as well as a very sound sleeper. I count myself as lucky to be able to easily sleep and dream, so I am not too harsh on myself when I snooze through anything. I can always catch up on world events on twitter when I awaken.
Politics in the United States are heating up in all the most bizarre ways. The tidy lady needs to school the politicians about hoarding old nuts. There are now scary clowns in the woods as well as in government. We are on a strange collision course with destiny. There is absolutely no telling what will happen.
Catch up with writers who share coffee on the weekend here. Sit down, enjoy, share whatever is on your mind. Have a Nut! They are on special this week.
Writing, music, art, and cuisine are integrated into my daily routine. I am inspired by creative projects of all kinds. I hope my study and practice keeps life fresh and stimulating. I am comfortable writing facts and stating my own opinions. I adore investigating my family tree because I constantly learn about history in a direct and personal way when I discover more facts about my ancestors. I also imagine myself inheriting some spark of talent from each and every one of them. I wish I knew more about the kinds of arts they might have pursued during their lives.
In April I join poets around the world to write 30 poems in 30 days. During the rest of the year I am a sporadic poet, and feel a tinge of guilt about it. This week I will go to a reading at our world-famous U of A Poetry Center. The theme for this series is poetry and climate change. The poets present in an ideal setting for the purpose, then answer questions posed by the audience. The caliber of the talent is outstanding. We are lucky to have this presented to the public here free of charge as part of the Poetry Center’s ongoing work. When I go to the center, either for a reading or to read part of the amazing collection, I feel extra guilt. My famous ancestor poet, Mistress Bradstreet, is represented in the collection. She wrote in colonial Massachusetts and wonders why I am not more prolific as a poet. Life as well as writing were not easy for her because the 1600’s were far less care free for women. She managed to crank out poems that told about historic events of the time in the language of the time. She thinks I should do the same, especially since I have all these electronic devices and twitter. She had nothing so convenient.
I have no real excuse to give to her. When I get into the practice of it I enjoy being a poet. I especially like to hang out with other poets, all of whom are better and more thoughtful then I am. Perhaps the reading this week will prime my poetic pump. Synesthesia is one of my daily goals in life. To create fusion of the senses, then mix them all into memory in order to make them verbal is a fun practice of self discovery. Poetry and music lend themselves to capturing the essence of sensory experience. I am not sure why I don’t do it all the time.
What do you like to do to employ your native creativity, gentle reader? Did you inherit any of your artistic talents (of which you are aware)?
She slipped in through the open window, the Rock-a-By Lady from Hushaby Street
Her curls were tangled around her face, her countenance was calm, quiet, and sweet
Her work revolved around the delivery of deep dreams to answer life’s questions
She drew vivid images, symbols within ancient stories containing characters I must meet
Her home is with the Mother Moon, a place where fairies dance, sing, hide, and play
Dream flowers, colored fountains of jasmine scented liquid fill the air with a spray
Intoxicating transforming bolts of light shine out from behind dream boats at the dock
This harbor is a shelter in the storm, granting time to the mariner who may have gone astray
This poem is built around a line I found in another poem, The Rock-A-By Lady, by Eugene Field. In Mr Field’s poem she is covered head to toe in poppies, each of which brings a fleet and tiny dream to her patrons. I like that image very much. Find poems you like this month at #NaPoWriMo where you can find other poets who used this same prompt to write today.
On stage alone declaring how holy is everything
Drama and grit in bohemian glory, unafraid, uncensored
Blazing through the living backwoods of words, bongos,
Coffeehouse in some village overflowing with reform
Of letters, of institutions, of all the powers who regulate
On fat asses that be in charge of declinations that articulate
Judgements for society not listening, nor daring to perform
Shocking truthful rage behind the masks worn as uniforms
Marching single file, lost in the mass shuffle of minds in thought
Keep the beat, a tribute to those poets who knew not what they taught
Ride the poetry train in April by boarding here. Enjoy reading writing and listening to diverse poets and beatnik bards.
My week has been graced by the presence of a real writer. I went to hear the poet Simon Ortiz who was in Tucson for a reading of his work. I was deeply moved and highly impressed with his writing, which he delivered with lavish explanations about his process. He is now writing an epic poem, an idea he joked about by saying there is no real rule about exactly how long an epic has to be. He will include within the epic some of his older works, which he shared with the group who had come to the U of A Poetry Center to listen to him. I purchased his book, Sand Creek, which he signed for me after the reading. I told him how much I loved hearing him and he responded that he really loved reading to us. His genuine joy in sharing his work was evident. We were all truly blessed to be there. Some of his poems are funny, and some carry tragic stories from history, like Sand Creek.
The Poetics and Politics of Water series has evolved. Dr. Ofelia Zepeda is a poet and professor who collaborates to put together this very special program of Native American writers. She and her colleague Larry Evers introduced Politics and Poetics in 1992. I look forward to the next reading which will be given by Dr. Zepeda herself. She uses her native language from this region, Tohono O’odham, to welcome the visitors to her land and bless the participants. It is beautiful. She translates the traditional greeting in to English when she is done.
I have written and read some this week with mixed results. I believe the most profound thing that happened to set my poetic self on the path was my chance to hear Mr Ortiz. He said prose and poetry are all the same, and in the end, all language is poetry. He certainly was all poetic in every part of his being. He talked about his own recovery from alcoholism, and his father’s inability to recover from it. His identity as Acoma with deep religious and cultural heritage is important to him. His father exposed Simon to sorrow through addiction, but he also taught him his traditional language and mystical history. The last poem he read to us was about his father’s death. It was sung as a song, a chant, a rhythmic tribute to the spirit of his father and all he had inherited. It was a wonderful way to show his talent and end on a solemn, serious, meaningful note.